


Somewhere in the World (A Meadow Filled With Flowers)

by Beth H (bethbethbeth)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: But Apparently Still On The Same Wave Length, Feelstide 2013, Gen, M/M, Mostly Non-Graphic Shenanigans, New Year's Resolutions, Stereotypically Communication Challenged Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/pseuds/Beth%20H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a long time since Phil Coulson didn't really die, and in all that time, Clint Barton hadn't contacted him.  Phil hadn't contacted Barton either, but he told himself that was a different matter entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere in the World (A Meadow Filled With Flowers)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Feelstide 2013 Prompt #6: New Year's resolutions
> 
> Spoilers, of sorts, for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. episode 1.07, "The Hub"

**Years Before**

It was a classic scene from a certain kind of movie.

 _Two lovers run toward each other in slow motion across a meadow filled with flowers and butterflies, arms spread, totally suffused in the joy of their meeting, as Tchaikovsky's 'Love Theme from the Overture to Romeo and Juliet' [...] plays on the soundtrack._ [1]

The first time Phil Coulson saw a scene like that on a movie screen, the year was 1981, and Phil - like most American teenagers in that year - couldn't remember seeing lovers running towards each other in slow motion in a movie that wasn't a parody.

To be truthful, though, it probably wouldn't have mattered if the scene had been played straight and with absolute sincerity. Teenaged Phil and the adult which he would someday become were united in their belief that nobody over the age of six was likely to act that way without being forced to do so. Unlike Natasha Romanoff, Phil Coulson believed that love existed, at least in a vague kind of way, but even if _some_ people might succumb to that kind of behavior (working at S.H.I.E.L.D. had taught him that almost anything was theoretically possible, especially when under the influence of some weird alien sex pollen or super-villain bio-technology), Phil was absolutely certain that he, himself, would never do so. 

Not in this lifetime.

***

Mind you, Phil Coulson never gave much thought to the possibility that he might have more than a single life to live.

***

**Weeks Before**

He'd acquiesced to Nick Fury's edict that Phil's current team members aside, only active agents, Level 7 and above, would be read in on his near-miraculous survival, but only because he knew that few secrets could actually be kept from anyone who'd made it through the rigors of S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, not if they possessed a strong enough motivation to ferret out information. It might not have looked like it at times, but Phil had reason to know that S.H.I.E.L.D. only recruited the best of the best.

Of course, Nick knew that as well, so why he seemed so intent on keeping up this charade, especially where Phil's closest former associates were concerned, was completely beyond his understanding, and it made even _less_ sense when Phil's new team was called in to the Hub. 

Phil Coulson might not have been the face on the S.H.I.E.L.D. recruiting posters, but he hadn't exactly been operating in the shadows for the past twenty years either. At least 50% of the Hub staff were able to recognize him on sight, despite very few of them having the official clearance to know he was still alive, and if the number of eyes widening as he passed through security was any indication, all hope of maintaining any level of secrecy within S.H.I.E.L.D. about Phil's current status had just become a thing of the past.

As for the aforementioned former associates...if there had been even the smallest chance that Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff hadn't known Phil's fate five minutes after his first round of surgery had ended, well, no...that was an impossibility. And yet, while there was zero chance they didn't know he was alive, neither of them had broken protocol by coming to see him; they hadn't even called, and Phil _knew_ they could have found a way to contact him if they'd really wanted to.

Phil, for his part, hadn't contacted them either, but he told himself that was a different matter entirely, connected to his own longstanding compliance with NDAs and general security mandates, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the niggling feeling deep inside that as soon as he did see them, he'd be forced to make the most abject and embarrassing apology he'd ever made in his life (to _Natasha_ ), followed by revealing something that Phil wasn't at all sure he was ever going to be capable of doing without being prodded into action by his own taser (to _Clint_ ). 

Soul-baring had never been Phil's long suit. He knew that he still hadn't managed to comfort Skye convincingly when she was unhappy, and the odds against his succeeding in anything that required him to display more emotional honesty than that were, quite frankly, astronomical.

Maybe _not_ seeing each other for the time being wasn't actually such a terrible thing.

***

**December 31, 3:17 pm, ET**

Phil could feel Melinda May's eyes on the back of his head from the moment she landed the Bus on the Helicarrier, and that piercing gaze of hers followed him as he, May, and Ward walked through the corridors and into Briefing Room 2A.

"I know what you're thinking," Phil murmured as they took their seats. "It's not going to be a problem."

If ever a lack of expression could be characterized as "doubtful," it was the expression on May's face.

"Neither of them are scheduled to be anywhere near here this week," he said, unsurprised to be met only by silence. "Romanoff's on assignment in Europe with the Director, and Barton...they probably don't even know we're here."

May's face remained impassive, but despite that, Phil could still _swear_ he saw her judging him for his weak attempt at obfuscation.

"Fine," he said resignedly, because while he missed Natasha, both he and May knew damned well there was only one former asset he was really thinking about. " _He_ probably doesn't know _I'm_ here."

That admission drew a raised eyebrow; he supposed that made a change, of sorts.

"For God's sake, Melinda...stop gossiping with Romanoff about matters that don't concern either one of you," Phil muttered.

"Is there anything you'd like to share with the class, Agent Coulson?" asked Hill tartly as she took her place at the head of the table.

"No ma'am." Even Phil could tell he sounded like a chastened schoolboy and far too petulant for a Level 8 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

"In that case," Hill said, "let's begin."

***

**December 31, 6:09 pm, ET**

The debrief dragged on for more than two hours, during which time Phil received four texts from FitzSimmons updating him on their meeting with R&D, two requisition forms from the S.H.I.E.L.D. quartermaster, asking for Phil's electronic signature so his people could start loading provisions onto the Bus, and an Instagram update from Skye marked "Urgent" showing a French Bulldog in a hand-knitted Captain America sweater (Phil didn't respond to Skye's message, but he did save the image).

He most emphatically did _not_ waste his time thinking about any former assets who could, at this very moment, be lurking somewhere on the Helicarrier.

Although...if he _had_ allowed himself to get slightly distracted by dwelling on the possibility of Barton maybe being somewhere in the vicinity? All that time would clearly have been wasted, because the meeting with Hill ended, the Bus was re-fueled, new supplies had been taken on, and despite receiving a vaguely encouraging (but still largely cryptic) nod from May as she returned to the Bus to do her pre-flight checks, there was no sign of Barton at all.

***

**December 31, 6:58 pm, ET**

There is a sense that most seasoned field agents acquire sometime during their careers, generally referred to as situational awareness, which allows - among other things - for the rapid detection and assessment of small changes in one's environment.

The rest of his team having already returned to the Bus, Phil had signed off on the last of the previous month's mission reports and was almost at the foot of the ramp when he detected behind him an almost imperceptible murmuring from the direction of the Helicarrier's aft hatch. There was no real need to investigate the minor disturbance - here, of all places, were people Phil could trust to watch his back - but while he knew his muscle memory had been compromised post-Tahiti, other instincts honed from years of working in the field were still intact, and so Phil stopped walking and turned back around.

47 feet away, leaning against an antenna mast, stood Clint Barton.

He was wearing scuffed combat boots, worn black jeans, a tight faded purple t-shirt, and a black leather jacket.

It was the first time Phil had been face to face with Clint in a very long time, and his relief at seeing him there - even from a distance - whole and entirely _himself_ after all that Phil knew Loki had put him through, was almost overwhelming. 

He took a deep breath, keeping himself from succumbing to an embarrassing display of hyperventilation by sheer force of will.

Phil had spent a lot of time over the past months imagining how this moment might play out. He'd tried to predict what the two of them would say to each other and how long it would take for them to find a way past all the deceptions and get their friendship back on an even keel.

In the back of his mind, Phil sometimes wondered whether it might even be possible for him and Clint to forge a _different_ kind of relationship someday, the kind that maybe they'd been dancing around for years. He told himself that if he were ever given a second chance with Clint - the way he'd been given a second chance at life - maybe he'd find out the answer to that question.

The time for that second chance could have been now, but Phil knew that right here, right now, on the deck of the Helicarrier, surrounded by dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel...no, this wasn't the time or place to try for second chances.

Maybe it never would be.

Phil stood stiffly at the edge of the ramp and gave Clint a brief nod of recognition; in return, Clint offered a lazy sort of salute, but made no other attempt at communication. Somehow he'd understood what motivated Phil's reluctance to act, and the soft expression on his face told Phil that Clint had already forgiven him for it.

Had already forgiven him for everything.

Phil gave Clint a wistful half smile, then turned away and headed back to the Bus.

***

**December 31, 6:59 pm, ET**

Before he'd taken two steps up the ramp, Phil automatically pulled his phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket and checked the time.

6:59 pm

December 31st.

He'd forgotten entirely that it was New Year's Eve.

Somewhere in the world - in Casablanca or Lisbon or Reykjavik - there was only one minute remaining until the start of the new year. Somewhere in the world there was one minute left to make a New Year's resolution, to try for a second chance. 

***

 _'Oh, to hell with it_ ' Phil thought and turned back around.

***

**December 31, 7:00 pm, ET**

The Helicarrier at night on the last day of December was about as different from a sun-drenched meadow full of butterflies and flowers as anything could be, but Phil - walking with his usual measured pace across the flight deck - couldn't help but feel as if he had somehow started running in slow motion.

Even when Phil was a young boy, he hadn't been given to public displays of...anything, really. He loved his parents, but once the second day of first grade rolled around, Phil was already unwilling to let his mother kiss him goodbye in front of his classmates. 

When he became an adult, nothing much changed; however when the two men met at the halfway point of the flight deck, instead of offering a handshake as he'd planned to do, Phil - deliberately ignoring the less-than-subtle interest of the on-duty personnel - somehow found himself extending both of his arms.

A moment later - after Clint recovered from his initial shock - the two men embraced.

***

**December 31, 11:12 pm, ET**

Neither Phil nor Clint had much experience with successful relationship discussions, but they both knew that this time they had to find a private place to actually sit down and hash things out like two rational adults.

Finding a place was simple, since it turned out that Clint owned an apartment - an entire apartment _building_ , in fact - in Brooklyn.

As for the discussion...

"Phil, meet Lucky," Clint said, nodding in the general direction of a friendly looking, one-eyed dog sprawled out on the sofa.

Phil hung his jacket over the back of a chair, then knelt down beside the sofa and buried one hand in the dog's ruff. "Hi, Lucky."

When he stood up and turned around, Clint was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, the top button of his jeans undone, and his boots unlaced.

"So," Clint said, staring down at the floorboards. "We should talk, right? Or we could, you know, talk later?"

In reply, Phil unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a white, almost-translucent t-shirt beneath. 

"I'm good with talking later," he said.

"Okay, good." Clint pushed away from the wall and let the momentum propel him until he was standing directly in front of Phil. "I've always kind of thought that talking was over-rated."

Phil couldn't help smiling at the thought of Clint Barton, of all people, not wanting to talk, but in the next instant, with absolutely no preparation, Clint unzipped Phil's trousers, dropped to his knees in front of him, and leaned forward to take Phil's cock in his mouth, at which point the thought of saying anything other than "God, yes!" and "Just a little harder," and "Oh, fuck, you're amazing" was completely irrelevant.

***

**New Year's Day**

If Phil had been asked a week earlier for a list of all the possible ways he thought he might greet the first morning of the new year, being stepped on by a big, hairy dog hellbent on claiming the warmest and most comfortable (if slightly come-stained) section of his owner's bed would probably not have made the top ten.

The dog in question circled around three times, then plopped down on the covers, his cold nose nestling into Phil's armpit and his rump no more than a quarter inch from his owner's face.

"Aw Lucky, no," grumbled Clint as he tried without notable success to re-arrange 75 pounds of dog.

Phil watched with amusement as Clint made an effort to rub the sleep out of his eyes and then push himself up to an _almost_ sitting position.

"Hey," Clint rasped, seeing that Phil was awake. "Happy New Year."

Phil smiled. "Happy New Year to you."

"So, um, Pizza Dog...he usually doesn't try to sleep here in my bed."

"No?" Phil said. "I guess I'm just special."

"Yeah," Clint said softly, as he slid his hand under Phil's t-shirt and gently rubbed the skin at the edge of Phil's scar. "You are."

For a moment, Phil closed his eyes and thought about Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr, lying on the beach in [_From Here to Eternity_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHYd9DRhh-c), gazing into each other's eyes and kissing as waves crashed onto the shore. Nowhere in that scene could Phil remember there being a dog that smelled vaguely of pepperoni or the sound of sanitation workers flinging bags of trash from a street's worth of New Year's Eve parties into the back of their truck.

Phil opened his eyes, and reached up to smooth his thumb along the edge of Clint's stubbled jawline.

Cinematic romance could be beautiful, but on the whole, Phil thought, as Clint leaned in to kiss him for the first time on the first morning of the new year, he much preferred reality.

* * *

[1] Evocative language courtesy of [TV Tropes](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MeadowRun)


End file.
